Vignettes of a Lost Childhood
by coffee-stained lips
Summary: Watch as Quinn and Artie, slaves to nature, endure the joy and heartache of growing up. Oneshot.


**You do not know _how_ much time I've put into this hunk of junk. It's a response to a prompt on the Quartie forum, but I highly doubt I did well. And it's painstakingly long, next to horrid. So, because it's so bad, I'm going to call these "vignettes" so it seems like this was on purpose with the choppy plots. 'Tis my early contribution to the Quartie ficathon in January. Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, Happy New Year, whatever y'all celebrate! And Merry Quartie Day, too, I guess.**

Quinn saw her first rainbow when she was four. The colors were lined above in perfect, curved columns; all the colors that mattered were up there, drawn against the clear blue sky as if the angels had taken crayons to it. Quinn's little hand was swallowed by her father's calloused palm as they strolled. Her pink lips were separated as she, awestruck, gazed at the six pretty lines going from the rooftop of a bakery to the suburbs across town. Her blonde locks, tied up in pigtails, wiggled as she hopped happily and pointed.

"Daddy, Daddy!" she cried, feet slapping the sidewalk pavement as she jumped, "Look at da colors! Da colors, Daddy, da colors!" Mr. Fabray grinned, stretching out his wrinkles.

"Yes, Quinnie," he said, kneeling down to be eyelevel with her, "It's a rainbow."

_Rainbow_. What a pretty name. Quinn fondly touched one of the pink bows holding her pigtails in place. She didn't think the sky colors looked much like a bow, but it was too beautiful to contradict.

When the Fabrays arrived home after a day of walking in the park, Quinn recovered her lost crayons and drew. Not a white sheet of paper was safe from Quinn's colorful onslaught as she drew and drew and drew red, orange, yellow, green, blue, and purple lines across the pages. There was an endless sea of rainbows covering her carpeted floor. She didn't stop at the generic colors she'd seen above; with a sixty-four pack, she created silver, gold, turquoise, gray, periwinkle, scarlet, tan, pink, navy, melon, and any other conceivable colored lines across white surfaces. Unfortunately, her fun was put to an end when Mrs. Fabray yelped at the sight of Quinn's walls rainbow-ed up.

Although Quinn would've abruptly halted in her interest in rainbows normally, as she was one to obey any command her parents dished out, this wasn't something easily forgotten. As she grew older, she learnt how the rainbows were etched into the sky—the result of sun after a quick shower (hence _rain_bow). Her face was glued to the window on stormy afternoons, waiting and wishing for the colors to appear one, two, three (four, five, six). Her mother feared it was unhealthy for a child to sit there all day, but Mr. Fabray assured her it would teach Quinn "patience"—also, it would make her happy _and_ keep her busy.

When Quinn was shipped off to kindergarten, she wore the nice sunflower dress her mommy had bought her, with matching bumblebee-colored bows in her hair, and—of course—rainbow-hued socks. Mrs. Fabray found them tasteless, and attempted to get Quinn to wear some crisp _white_ socks, but even at five Quinn was stubborn as a mule. All the little girls wore green and pink and blue dresses, but their socks were all clear and white. Her ankles glowed with red at the top, violet at the end, the only one with glowing feet.

Because of this Quinn was much embarrassed. She didn't want to lose the acceptance of her class before she had a chance, all because of her secret love for rainbows. She tried to stuff them deep into her tennis shoes, but it was to no avail, and she had to sit down for class to start. At her rounded table two children sat already: one was blonde with a distant look in her eyes as if she wasn't truly there, and the other was a boy, light brown hair resembling honey and clunky glasses askew. His vest was red, orange, and tan, looking as though he'd been attacked by cans of paint, and his collared shirt was buttoned up to his chin. He grinned at her, and she noticed how misshapen his teeth were with vacancies and asymmetrical growth—but he was cute.

"Hi," he said, holding one stiff arm out for her, "I'm Artie."

"I'm Quinn!" she said, with more enthusiasm than he had. He was visibly shy; just greeting her had taken a toll on him. But Quinn was friendly and chatty enough for the both of them, so he wouldn't have to speak if he didn't want to. She shook his hand, quite firmly.

"I like your socks." Artie complimented, pointing at her multicolored feet. She almost blushed. At least somebody thought it was nice, and not weird, that her socks had rainbows.

"Thanks." she replied, and her eyes went to his feet. They were as blandly white as the rest of them, hanging lopsidedly over the laces of his shoes. So far she liked Artie, but his attire needed some sprucing up. Now where were her markers?

The day went on slowly, but the activities weren't very difficult. They played, ate, napped, colored, and played more. Ms. Hearst, the schoolteacher, was a kind old lady, with graying strands of hair. She smiled too much, though, so much she looked strained. During art time she lent her many supplies to the children who yearned to draw and color. Quinn delightfully borrowed her six favorite colors.

"I like your socks too, Artie," she said as they sidled back into their seats. He looked doubtful of that, but politely thanked her nevertheless. "But they're too white. Want me to color them?" Artie's eyes widened, anxiety swelling in his chest.

"Huh?" he questioned.

"I mean, can I draw rainbows on 'em?" she asked, waving one green-tipped marker in circles. Artie gulped. As much as he liked her socks, having his own resemble them was a tad embarrassing, him being male. But he couldn't say no—oh, how impolite that'd be!

So he said yes, and Quinn knelt to the ground with her collection. With Artie's sock held up near his knee, she drew a thick red line at the top. She went in accordance to the rainbow's order of colors all the way down to his toes. Then she switched feet. However, she only got halfway on the second until Ms. Heart's kind voice turned menacing. She had to apologize to Artie, and hand back the markers. Artie gave her a grin, though, and lent her his when Ms. Hearst looked away. That day, Quinn made a new friend.

Two new friends, in fact, as the girl at their table pulled herself out of her inner world long enough to say "I like rainbows too" and that her name was Brittany. Both she and Artie walked home with beautified socks.

Kindergarten sped by fast and summer soon pounced on the three children. They discarded their socks for sandals (Quinn took no offense to this, since her six-year-old mind didn't process that hers were in the pile as well), and Artie finally crawled out of his kitschy vests to take on plain T-shirts and short pants. The girls wore tanks and shorts too as the three romped around in their yards. They hopped right into Artie's boyish roughhousing, wrestling and grunting and screaming. When they grew tuckered out, they hobbled into the house of whoever had invited the other two over. Mrs. Abrams was Quinn's favorite parent because she had boatloads of goodies for consumption like lemonade and homemade popsicles. Despite her protectiveness toward her son, Mrs. Abrams was a pretty cool mom overall. So long as they stayed safe, they got to do anything their hearts desired.

"Argh!" Artie cried from atop his sycamore tree, "Avast ye scurvy lasses! Or face the wrath of Cap'n Art! Ah, the foamy sea doth turn a boat, and ye don't want ter see me there when you flip over!" He let out a bellow, thrusting his wooden sword to the heavens and adjusting the eye patch that threatened to tear off his spectacles. Brittany and Quinn stood on the ground as Artie paced his tree house, their eyes scouring the tree for a way up. Artie's rope ladder had been retrieved like an anchor from a boat, and his pals were left in the "shark-infested sea" where they would "suck in the backwash of watery demons and die". Quinn, being the adventuresome kiddo she was, wouldn't put up with "Cap'n Art's" banishment. Even as Brittany stood to the side, fiddling with the spoon she was using for a hooked hand and observing gray clouds in the distance, Quinn was running her hands up and down the base of the tree, searching for knotholes; her eyes scrutinized the height of the tree, the placement of the tree house, and the weak areas in the wood. She wasn't having much luck, but was trying, something Artie observed.

Eventually Quinn found a knothole large enough to wedge her shoe in. A branch hung nearby that knothole, and more led the way to Artie's pirate vessel. With reflexes akin to a cat's, Quinn climbed upward, grabbing branch after branch, hoisting herself up on short arms. Several times the sycamore almost dropped her, but Quinn wouldn't allow it to defeat her. She got onto the last branch, a broad and leafy one, and with a grandiose flip was on Artie's ship. Artie wheeled around in wonderment, his mouth hanging over his neck. But this awe turned swiftly to rage (fake rage, of course) and his sword was pointed at her chest.

"Who dares defy the power of Cap'n Art?" he queried, eyebrows knitted together. Quinn adjusted her navy bandana and sneered.

"It is I, Q the…um…" she began, pausing to think. Artie threw out a Q word, and Quinn thanked him before going back into her sneer. "Q the Quarrelsome! I've come for yer ship and yer men. This be my treasure trove!"

"Over my dead body!" exclaimed Artie. He jabbed his dagger forward, but Quinn dodged the attack. From her side she pulled her own handcrafted weapon, and the two launched into battle. Their swords locked and they spun, stabbed, jumped, and twirled. Childish giggles escaped their mouths even as they tried to subdue them, knowing pirates don't giggle. They continued in their witty banter and swordfight when the clouds began to swim together. The sky darkened, and the trees swayed dangerously in the breeze. The kids stopped their pirate shenanigans immediately, looking out at the sky.

"Wh-What's happening?" Artie questioned, shuddering as the cold brought on by the storm whooshed along his skin. Quinn shook her head to indicate she didn't know, when all of a sudden the clouds spewed a barrage of raindrops on their heads. They covered their unprotected skin with their hands, but it wasn't enough. They then crawled to a dry corner, shielded by leaves and branches of the huge sycamore, and huddled close to keep warm. The wind let out an angered roar at their finding sanctuary, and unleashed another troop of rain and sleet on them. They screeched, hiding their faces from the wind's evil assault, and they could hear Brittany's far-off yelping going toward the house. It was terrifying to be in the storm, stuck like guinea pigs; all Quinn could do was clutch Artie's T-shirt and bury her head in his neck.

A miracle then happened, just as the two were getting soggy and hopeless; the shower stopped as fast as it had begun, the thunderclouds moving away to harm other unsuspecting people in Ohio. The sky returned to its clear blue color, and fluffy white clouds swirled about the sky like whipped cream. The two cautiously got up from their spots, moving to the edge of the tree house. Water dripped off their noses and lashes as they peered out into the sky. Quinn smiled in spite of her wet clothes and hair; there, beyond the departing thunderclouds, was a rainbow.

"Look!" she squealed, tugging on Artie's arm, "Over there!" Artie wiped the blurry droplets off his lenses, and then looked through them where Quinn was aiming. He too gave a large, toothy smile.

"A rainbow." he breathed. He was mesmerized by the sight of it, by the mere existence of such a beautiful thing. They both stared at it, reaching their fingers for it, even though they couldn't touch it. Somewhere along the way, Quinn's hand met Artie's, and their bitty fingers clasped together.

Mrs. Abrams was in a panic when Quinn and Artie returned sopping wet from the yard. Brittany could be seen in the background reaching for a cookie lying unsuspectingly on the counter (Quinn envied her dry hair and clothing). Mrs. Abrams didn't make _too_ much of a fuss about it, though, just handed them towels and fresh apparel. Quinn was stuck wearing Artie's C-3PO T-shirt with ravioli stains on it, but it was warm and smelt of peanut butter. With cookies Brittany had smuggled down her shirt, the three sat before the TV, the lights dimmed and their bodies tucked in a quilt, to watch a _Star Wars _marathon, but Quinn's eyes remained trained on the rainbow glittering outside.

Most of the summer days after had warm weather and minimal rain, so the trio could play more in the outdoors. Their activities didn't change much—they still brawled and screeched and played pretend. Quinn enjoyed the geeky imagination games Artie conjured, except for the fact he insisted on the being the hero. Whether it was pirates or space Martians or even train conductor, Brittany and Quinn were casted as distressed damsels and him the superman.

"I don't wanna be Ginny _again_!" Quinn burst one day as Artie handed out parts. Pushing his too-big glasses up his nose, Artie scowled.

"You hafta," he said, "Harry's s'posed to save her from the Chamber of Secrets, and he can't do that if there isn't a Ginny."

"But why do _I_ gotta be her?" she demanded, "Ginny doesn't do _nothin'_!"

"Brittany isn't complaining!" Artie cried, jabbing his toy wand (created from taking apart his toy sword) at her nose. Quinn knocked away the wand, and Artie squeaked in surprise at her defiance.

"That's 'cause she's the snake!" she said, "She gets to kill you!"

"You wanna kill me then, is that it?" Artie questioned. Quinn, letting out a deep breath, raised one devilish eyebrow. Artie knew he'd done an awful thing to himself with this accusation. It wasn't long before he was mashed against the ground, Quinn sitting atop him with her arm holding him down. Quinn could be abrasive when she wanted to be, and she always won. Artie knew that; but Artie wished it wasn't true.

After a brief session of Artie squealing "uncle", Quinn was awarded the chance to play Harry Potter while Artie, humiliatingly, had to take on the role of Ginny Weasley. Quinn laughed as he muttered to himself how unfair the situation was. The game was over quickly; Brittany, unconscious of the somewhat dorky fandoms Quinn and Artie revered, dropped "dead" before Quinn even finished her scene. Brittany was then presented with a harsh scolding; unfortunately, she then tried to bite Quinn the second time around, so Quinn told Artie she thought playing Ginny wasn't so bad, but he refused to give up the role when he witnessed Brittany's antics, and then the game fell to ashes until Brittany went off chasing a butterfly.

As every good thing comes to an end, so did summer; the three were split up in first grade, despite Quinn's whines at home that were transmitted to the school board by Mr. Fabray. Mrs. Stohl's ramblings about addition weren't entertaining without a fascinated Artie jotting down notes in his wide-ruled notebook ("Do we even need those in first grade?" Quinn had questioned, to which Artie responded "If you wanna be smart." Quinn decided not to bring one). All she had for company was a doofus who devoured his glue. Lunch and recess were the only tolerable subjects because the three classes joined together, and Quinn was able to desert the glue-gobbling goof for her intellectual friend and, well, her rather senseless friend too.

But Brittany suddenly gained a personality other than the blank stares and interest in small, simple things when, at the first recess, the supervisors came out with big red kickballs and plump basketballs and neon hula hoops. She dashed over, stealing away a pink-and-green-striped hula hoop. It rattled and spun incessantly, and Brittany went right along with it. Quinn watched the hoop swirl around Brittany's waist, enthralled by the coordination her friend possessed to use this invention. So spellbound was she that Quinn got her own hula hoop from the heap of blacktop toys; she mimicked Brittany's movements, and was pleasantly surprised to be launched straight into the whirlwind of hula hooping.

Artie approached the girls awkwardly. He had reverted to his garb of sweater vests and button-downs, in all their ugly glory. His rough antics over the summer changed to shyly glancing at his feet, hands in pockets. He used an entirely different persona around them, mainly Quinn, and, while she was glad _she_ got to see this secret side, she wanted the real side to pop out for all to see.

"Artie, wanna hula hoop with us?" she asked as she walked over to him, her hips still regulating the twirl of the hoop. He shook his head, something that made Quinn a small bit peeved. "Why not?"

"I-I-I'm not good at it," he said, shuffling his feet, "It's really…hard."

"This is my first time." That made his face redden.

"I don't wanna." he said.

"Yeah, you do."

"Nope."

"Yep."

"Quinn!"

"Whiner."

Artie's face deepened in shade, turning his face bright purple. Already his true personality was poking through the cracks of his face as he gave her a free frown. She had to work to contain her triumphant smile.

He nabbed a hula hoop from the side, klutzily sliding into it. "Not so hard." he muttered, but his body betrayed his words: his hips jerked back and forth, not in rhythmic movements like Brittany, and the hoop quickly gave up on him, clattering to the ground by his feet. Not wanting to lose his dignity, Artie tugged it back against his waist again, but all the jolts and shakes he used did not benefit him in the slightest; still the hula hoop gravitated to the ground.

After the fifteenth time he failed (Quinn was counting), he kicked it away, looking teary-eyed. The hoop rolled to Brittany's feet and she delightedly placed that one over her head to coincide with her first. This even grander show of her talents made Artie fall deeper into his dejected state. Quinn glowered at Brittany for this display, but her fellow blonde was unmindful of Artie's emotional state and continued to swirl, daydreaming of butterflies and fluffy clouds.

Quinn knelt beside him, as he had slouched over on the blacktop, and patted his back. Guilt gnawed at her sides; she had been teasing him when she called him a whiner, but she hadn't realized the impact it had on him. The foolishness of seven-year-olds could take a heavy toll on those around them.

"I'm sorry." she said, "You don't hafta hula hoop if you don't wanna." Artie smiled, and in return Quinn smiled, and the two pressed against one another in a hug. The peanut buttery smell that clung to Artie's clothes crept up Quinn's nose again, and she was suddenly appreciative she harbored no peanut butter-related allergies.

They decided hula hoops were best left alone, and returned to their usual games (Brittany, so entertained by her own talent, went unnoticed and was fine by that); this time, Artie allowed Quinn from the start to have a more gratifying role as Ben Kenobi while he played Darth Vader in the lightsaber battle that Quinn had grown attached to after seeing it on Artie's TV set. They used dead branches as weaponry, despite the skeptical glares from the recess monitors.

First grade was faster in its departure than kindergarten, and second grade loomed like a hungry beast over the horizon. Rumors circulated that second grade was when things got nasty: shapes, money, time, fractions—and that was just math. Artie was practically drooling, because he enjoyed learning new things. Of course, as any sensible child would, he preferred long summer days to long school days, but at least he could take pleasure in the curriculum, unlike Quinn, whose head pumped with the overload of new knowledge, or Brittany, who was too stupid to understand basic facts like the location of Canada ("It's in Asia, right?"). Luckily this year, Quinn was paired up with Artie in Mr. McGee's class, so she'd now have an "intellectual" partner in their seating arrangement. But her merriment was short-lived that summer.

The news came on a Wednesday.

Quinn had been lounging on her sofa, reading one of the books Artie had lent her when school last let out—it was a long novel (long for her) and was quite puzzling as they spoke of time portals and a "mousy" young Meg; Quinn wondered how one's hair could be similar to a mouse's. She did, however, like the Charles Wallace character—he reminded her of Artie, a juvenile with a mind so sage it baffled all around.

She had been hunting for a distraction from reading, because she didn't want to give up on it from the start if Artie loved it so, but she was jubilant when she caught a glimpse of Brittany speeding toward her house on her pink bicycle. She slapped the book down, not so much as taking care not to break the spine, and rushed outside. Brittany looked very distressed: her hair was going in every direction; her eyes were wild like a feral cat's; and her outfit was built up of Scooby-Doo pajama bottoms, a yellow blouse, and a shoe on her right foot with one rainbow-colored sock on her left. Quinn was staggered Brittany still owned that sock, _and_ that it still fit, but she didn't have time to make conversation about it when Brittany choked out "Artie!"

"What 'bout him?" Quinn inquired. The troubled tone of voice Brittany used was not consoling.

Instead of answering, Brittany tugged on Quinn's hand, dragging the eight-year-old down the street by way of bike. It was a rickety ride with two on a one-seater, but the destination they were traveling to was apparently close. It was on the edge of Quinn's suburb, where a calm road lay. Not many cars passed by; the only sight to see were the trees whistling to the wind's song and one-story cottages with chain-link fences. Quinn gasped when she saw: the tranquil area's status was smothered by a bulging cloud of gray smoke that extended far along the street. It came from one of the rougher trees near a picket fence across from the chain-linked ones—not the tree itself, but a car that had slammed against its trunk. As the girls neared the wreckage, they saw the whole front of the car was totaled, crunched back like an accordion. Paramedics and firemen were bustling about the front seats, checking the car for passengers. A sobbing, red-haired woman was led away by one of the firemen. Quinn's jaw dropped—it was Mrs. Abrams! She looked harried, but not harmed. Mr. Abrams followed soon; except for a bruise swelling along the side of his face, he looked fine as well. It was the third one to escape the wreck that was affected.

Without delay Artie was laid on a stretcher. His legs were crumpled, twisted backwards and upwards. Blood covered his face—minor amounts of blood, a drop or two, but to Quinn it looked like he'd spilt a pint. The paramedics loaded him into the ambulance, putting an oxygen mask over his mouth. His parents followed, and soon enough they were all gone.

Brittany and Quinn rode back home at Quinn's insistence, and then they were driven by the Fabrays' minivan to the local hospital. Quinn rushed ahead of them all, exploding like a firecracker in tears and shouts. "Where is he!" was her cry. "Where is he! Where is he!" Startled stares from visitors, nurses, and doctors trailed her as she ran, but Quinn wasn't about to be stopped. One little girl—her age—glowered from nearby, and whispered croakily "Why am I more mature than my peers?" to the two men beside her. Quinn wanted to snap at her, but Artie was more important than this sassy rival. She caught a receptionist nearby, and Quinn loped to her.

"Where is he?" she whimpered to the woman, whose long fingernails were raised up in alarm.

"Little girl, you shouldn't be running like that in a hospital!" the woman hissed, "There are sick people here, you know that? Dreadfully, heartbreakingly sick—"

"Where is _Artie_?" Quinn demanded, stamping her foot, "I need _him_!" The woman's beady eyes glared down at her, and her fingernails morphed into talons. Thankfully Brittany and the Fabrays caught up with Quinn; Mrs. Fabray apologized, but the woman was hesitant to accept.

One of the doctors who'd been spying Quinn came over, shaking hands with Mr. Fabray. "I'm Dr. Foreman, Artie Abrams's doctor. Is he the Artie she wants?" Quinn cut in before her daddy could speak, shrieking "Yes!"

"Well, his parents just went in to see him, but I'm positive they'd be alright with Artie's friends visiting him too." Dr. Foreman said, and Quinn didn't need another word before she was darting where the doctor had been standing. Inside there was a cot, and on that cot was a small boy. She saw the reflection of the sky in his lenses, and at once she knew it was him.

She entered carefully, all her adrenaline washed out of her veins. The scene was grisly and perturbing: Artie, playful, rambunctious Artie, hooked up to several IVs and a respirator. His eyes were fixated on the ceiling, where a mural of fish swimming in the ocean was. It was out-of-place toward the atmosphere of the room, with the machine next to Artie beeping every few seconds.

Quinn moved forward. Her legs, speedily carrying her before, now trembled. She was sure her face was as pale as Artie's as she progressed toward his bedside. He didn't look at her as she approached, something she was grateful for. She stayed there for awhile, just staring at his poor, broken state, as she listened to the machine's hum. Then, weakly, he twisted his head to peer at her through half-closed eyes.

"Qu-Quinn?" he stammered. She bit down on her lip—_Do not cry,_ she thought, _Do not cry._

"Hi, Artie," she said, plastering a fake grin on her lips. "W-We heard about…what happened. Are you alright?"

"As alright as I'll ever be." He tried to hoist himself up, but it was a struggle to do so. Quinn watched as he lifted himself a little up, dragging his legs with him. His head flopped back down on the pillow, weary, after he was done.

"Why can't you move your legs?" Quinn asked. She didn't want an answer. It took him so long just to move up in his bed; what had happened to his legs that made it so? She had seen them disfigured earlier, pointing in inhuman directions as he was laid on the stretcher. It made her sick to her stomach to recall the spectacle.

Artie's face further whitened. "I dunno," he said, "I just woke up n' I couldn't move them. The doctor lady told my mom and dad I won't again."

"Huh?" she asked.

"She said I'm not gonna walk. Ever." The force of this comment crashed into Quinn's ears like a train off the tracks. Imagining Artie not walking was impossible; he loved to run and jump, climb up to his refuge the tree house, roll in the grass collecting green stains. She had seen people in those wheelie-chairs, those chairs they never got up out of. Now Artie would be confined to one of those chairs, forever maybe. They'd never again go up in his tree house, or reenact those lightsaber battles, or wrestle in the grime and muck. What could they do when he was in a wheelie-chair—play Monopoly?

Quinn didn't speak. Instead, her hand met Artie's, and they silently stayed there to wallow in the bad news. An inevitable tear squeezed out of her left eye, and a couple more followed. Artie had no reaction to her tears, for he had slowly fallen asleep. Quinn removed her hand from his grasp, and fell into a nearby chair. She looked above at the ceiling with the clownfish and sea anemones, but she was looking past the artwork as she put her two hands together. She cleared her throat.

"God?" she murmured, "Hi, it's Quinn. Um, could you help Artie? He needs to walk again. He _loves_ moving around and playing. Why would you take away his legs? Please give them back to him, and I'll do anything. I'll even stop walking if he starts again. Please, God, he doesn't deserve this." Her father had told her God could fix, and would fix, everything. If she only prayed selflessly, God would do as she asked. But Artie didn't hop from his bed, smiling and leaping, so she stopped. Brittany came in soon after, took one look at Quinn, and started bawling. The two girls hugged each other, crying like little babies at the unfortunate event that had befallen their friend. Every time Brittany pressed against Quinn, Quinn choked out more tears and more spluttering coughs. She wasn't sure when, but her parents soon took them both home so they didn't disturb the Abrams.

The trio didn't get together much over the summer. Quinn never invited Artie over, in fear, and Brittany never returned Quinn's calls. Artie had called Quinn a couple of times, but she never picked up the telephone. She wasn't ready to see him in his new condition. Eventually, Mrs. Fabray thought it'd be a good idea to have the Abrams family over for dinner. At Quinn's protests, her mother had given her a stern lecture on tolerance and friendship.

"If you're Artie's friend, you'll accept him," she had said, "wheels and all."

So Quinn got dressed in her nicest dress, a blue one with lily pads and frogs along the edge—but then she remembered how much Artie loved blue, and she couldn't handle him complimenting her because she'd start crying again, so she changed into her not-as-pretty red blouse and jeans. Mrs. Fabray, as the two of them set the table, kept talking about how awkward it'd be for Artie and that Quinn should be kind, respectful, and _not_, under any circumstances, mention the Chair. That was what they called it—the Chair, as if it were some accursed object. To Quinn it was.

The Abrams arrived shortly after they'd gotten ready. At the sound of the doorbell, Quinn had the instinctive urge to run away, but her feet remained stuck to the floor. Mrs. Fabray, after a cagey look toward Quinn, answered the door. There Mr. and Mrs. Abrams stood, smiling; but Quinn didn't see the smiles reach their eyes. Mrs. Abrams usually dressed in bright, vivacious colors, but tonight she wore gray, while Mr. Abrams wore the same outfit she always saw on Artie. And, speak of the devil, the sound of wheels turning came into her ears.

"Well," Mrs. Fabray said, seeing Artie, "long time, no see."

"Salutations, Mrs. Fabray." Artie greeted. He looked as he always did: hideous corduroys, sweater vest, and button-down. But he looked different, completely; he was suddenly taller than her (he'd always been the short one) due to something beneath him. Quinn's heart dropped—he was in the Chair.

The Abrams came in, hanging their coats on the coat rack. The fathers engaged in conversation on the Reds game the other night, while the mothers uneasily spoke about how each family had been doing. Artie rolled over to Quinn: the sparkle was still in his eyes. At least that wasn't lost.

"I like your dress." he said, doing the thing Quinn had tried to avoid. With a lump in her throat, she thanked him.

Their discussions weren't lengthy—barely existent. Artie tried to bring in topics like _Star Wars_, second grade, rock music, his guitar lessons, but Quinn would only mumble monosyllabic replies, making Artie stutter and shut up. The laughs from the adults felt cruel, like they were rubbing it in that _they_ could elude discomfort for a night and Quinn couldn't. It was the most unfair thing to happen to her in her eight years of existence.

Eventually the actual reason for them coming over, dinner, began. It didn't change much: the adults talked and laughed, not detecting the trouble for the children. Quinn kept piling food high on her plate and wolfing it down just to dodge any chat between anyone. Artie prodded his green beans sadly, not up to speaking either—whether by force or true desire, Quinn didn't care.

"Oh, Judy, where's the dessert?" Mr. Fabray asked, and the kids willingly looked up from their meals.

"Ah, I forgot!" Mrs. Fabray cried, slapping a hand against her cheek, "It wasn't done when you all arrived, so I left it in—ooh, I hope it isn't burnt!"

"Want me to get it, ma'am?" Artie asked. Mrs. Fabray looked utterly embarrassed as she forced herself to look Artie's way while avoiding the Chair.

"Erm, you don't need to—" she began.

"I wanna." Artie cut in, already rolling himself away. Mrs. Fabray's face reddened, as did those of the other grown-ups.

"Well, if you really want to," she said, looking toward Quinn, "why don't you and Quinnie go together? That way you can help each other." Quinn glared at her mother. What ploy was this? She was happy Artie obliged to leave for a moment because that would mean not having to stay stock-still and shovel potatoes in her mouth like a trucker. But now that her demonic mother had brought it up, refusing to go would be rude, and pointing out the one thing everyone tried not to think about.

"Fine." she said, getting up and directing Artie to the kitchen. The oven was indeed on, and Quinn spied a cake within, fully formed and ready to consume. They would just need oven mitts to remove the cake, so Quinn tugged a stool (she used stools to stand on whenever her mother wanted her help cooking) over to the counter. She hopped atop it, and began rummaging in the drawers for oven mitts.

"That was a good dinner." Artie complimented. Quinn didn't respond. "It was beef, right? I don't normally eat beef, but it tasted pretty good this time. Your mom's an excellent cook, Quinn." _Please don't talk,_ she silently begged, _Please._ She found the oven mitts and, ready to silence Artie, tossed them to him.

"Get the cake outta the oven." she commanded, not even offering him a glimpse, but he did as she instructed. Out of her peripheral Quinn observed him as he threw down the oven door and placed the mitts on. He didn't seem vulnerable—not at all. In fact, he seemed no different than before (besides the obvious change). Maybe Quinn was overreacting; maybe he could still be the same old Artie.

He got the oven mitts on, and reached inside. After getting a firm grip on the cake, he pulled it out, but the hot tray it was on connected with his skin, producing a white-hot burn on his flesh. He winced and cried "Ow!", dropping the cake in the process. It clattered to the ground, thankfully on the tray side, but Quinn couldn't conjure feelings of relief. She just stared at Artie as he massaged his wrist and bit on his tongue. He looked up at her, and Quinn felt that heart-dropping sensation again.

"Can you get me a band-aid from up there?" he said (he and Brittany both knew the locations of many things in the Fabray household, having been over numerous times). Usually, if he needed a band-aid, he would hop onto the counter, and scrounge around in the drawers until he found one. But he couldn't hop up there anymore, not without working legs. He was helpless—couldn't even get a band-aid without assistance. Quinn could not bear it any longer as all the sadness overwhelmed her; tears fell out of her eyes as she ran upstairs, away from the guests.

She didn't come out at all that night. Mrs. Fabray knocked on the door several times, and Mr. Fabray scolded her relentlessly for her rudeness. Not one word came out of Artie's mouth, and she learnt that they had left soon after Quinn's departure. She felt no remorse, however. She was glad that they had left, because she knew she couldn't take Artie's condition any longer.

Soon enough, all of Lima knew, as second grade rolled in and Artie did too. Second graders all around had their mouths falling open, their eyes gluing themselves to the Chair even as they tried not to. The teacher was mad at them, telling them it didn't matter how Artie looked, he was still like them in every way; but that was a lie, and the teacher knew it. No one was at all eager to befriend the reformed Artie—not even Quinn. She still shuddered at his presence, especially after the dinner. Regret hadn't settled in until she saw him again and, boy, was she embarrassed. She could hardly recall when seeing him made her heart flutter with glee—now stones were smashing her heart to pieces.

Quinn stayed near to Brittany, who had discarded Artie months ago, and her new pal Santana. The girls went well together, she had to admit, though they were walking clichés with Brittany's stupidity and Santana's nastiness. But they didn't abruptly change, and they didn't go by Artie. However, even as she gave him the cold shoulder, Quinn felt pained at recesses when Artie was cast aside because he couldn't play like the other boys. Only teachers approached him, and Quinn could see the reluctance in their stances. It made her guilty, because Artie would've believed she'd stay by him, but she didn't—she cared too much to.

Years went along, and soon enough the status quo of middle school took over their happy grade school friendships: Quinn, along with Frick and Frack (better known as Santana and Brittany), somehow became leaders with their behavior and beauty. Students like the glue-eating loser actually made it to second-class after hitting puberty, but the dreaded label of "unpopular" branded those Quinn felt were undeserving—like Artie. Who knew Lord of the Rings wasn't cool among teenagers?

Quinn was subjected to seeing Artie pushed around and spat at every day. The Chair at least kept him out of dumpsters, but he was a favorite for trapping in port-a-potties, a hobby she didn't think the bullies would drop anytime soon. She hated it, but it was the way things were done. Artie constantly offered pleading glances, glances that begged her to remember all the shared laughs, games, their _Star Wars _marathons and Harry Potter expeditions, but she never did. She just pushed her childhood to the back of her mind, because she knew how it ended. It ended on a Wednesday.

In seventh grade, though, five years after a real interaction with Artie and not just polite greetings in the hall, Quinn had to face her childhood again. It was wintertime, and all the teens were griping about Mrs. Garcia's annual Christmas celebration. Mrs. Garcia, a lady with chopped blonde hair and one oversized tooth, made her homeroom participate in a Secret Santa activity—they would all pick a name from a hat, and deliver a present to the owner of that name, regardless of their feelings toward them. Santana was worried she'd choose a chess club dork, but Quinn's worries were far larger.

"Here, Miss Fabray." instructed Mrs. Garcia, holding a hat under Quinn's nose. Hesitantly she removed a thin slip of blue paper. She opened it to peer at the signature as Mrs. Garcia went to the girl beside her. She knew whose name would glare back at her, but she nearly broke down when she saw it:

ARTIE ABRAMS

Now the boy she tried to avoid for half of a decade had her as his Secret Santa. Joy.

Stuck with him, Quinn thought. And thought. And thought some more until her brain sizzled, but nothing came close to acceptable. A guitar? No, he inherited his father's. Books? No, he had too many to count. Tickets to _Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire_? No, he probably had tickets for five showings by now. It was a never-ending struggle to find the perfect gift. She could just get him a Reese's peanut butter cup, but that felt wrong. Even if they would never speak again, this had to be special—she owed it to him.

On the weekend, as she and her mother ran errands, they drove past the Abrams' house. Quinn saw Mr. and Mrs. Abrams loading the car, dressed in plaid and rough-looking jeans and heavy Christmas-themed sweaters, while Artie was by the sycamore. He eyed the weatherworn tree house, emptied of its childlike contents long ago. The fine, dark paint was chipping, and she could see birds had made the abandoned haven their home. Even as they passed the house within ten seconds, she noticed the unmistakable emotion of grief in Artie's eyes as he looked, sulkily, at the rope ladder dangling from the house, blowing in the cold wind.

She ordered her mother to call the Abrams later that day. After a few inquiries on why she was interested in Artie all of a sudden, she did call them to discover they were heading to the lake for the weekend before Christmas, to see the beautiful ice on the water, as they did every year. It was perfect timing, Quinn thought, for her plan to be devised. She told her mother her plan—in the shape of a lie, of course, and through Mrs. Fabray Quinn got the Abrams to allow it to be brought into play.

A trip to the Home Depot was the first order of business; Mr. Fabray was giddy like a little boy as he purchased wood, saws, screws, nails, et cetera. Then they set to work in the Abrams backyard. Dressed in overalls and beat-up sneakers, but also a wooly North Face, she acted as if she were a born architect, her eardrums contaminated with _whack-whack_, _whir_,_ buzz-buzz-buzz_, _whack_, _whir_, _whack-whack_. It took the entire weekend, with the blizzard-like gusts of wind and the snowfall and the icicles on Quinn's nose, but it was all worth it for Christmas Day.

She stayed there, all morning, the day the Abrams came home, just to see Artie's face—her father was there as well, too unwilling to remove his dirtied work clothes. Her initial mortification at the outfit passed when she saw that blue van roll up into the driveway. Her heart beat as faster than the speed of light (and that's not just a cliché metaphor). First came the parents, who gasped at the sight. Mrs. Abrams started to tear up, and sought comfort in her husband's arms. A startled cry of "What?" came from inside, and soon Artie—in a ghastly blue sweater with dancing snowmen—emerged from the back of the van.

"Mom, are you alright?" he asked, "What's going on? Quinn, why are you—?" He stopped as he looked past the Fabrays and at the Secret Santa gift Quinn had built for him.

Next to the rope ladder was an expertly built ramp. It was carved of fine wood, and sloped upwards into the tree house for an easy, safe trip for those on wheels. Sweat and blood (okay, sort of just sweat) had gone into the construction of this ramp, of this gift. It may've been a little much for a seventh-grade Secret Santa project, but there was nothing better to give.

After getting his fill, Artie rolled closer, and looked at Quinn. "You…?" he said, "You did…you did this?" She nodded, trying to stop a smile from cricking up her lips. She failed.

But it wasn't a terrible failure, for it prompted Artie to smile, and before any of the four knew it he was wheeling himself up into the tree house. Quinn watched, hoping it would stay, and it did, carrying Artie into his old hideaway. She couldn't resist—she followed him by way of rope ladder.

It wasn't classy up in it: bird droppings and leaves scattered the floor. Bugs skittered about on twigs left over from bird nests long since deserted. It was foul up there with ticks and bird poop and the general stench of nature, but seeing the elated look on Artie's face, how he just cared he could get up there, made it go away for a few seconds.

"Dad, Mom!" he shouted down to them, "This thing is so _boss_!" They waved up at him, and then went forth to thank Mr. Fabray even though Quinn was the one who jumpstarted it all. At least Artie recognized that, as he turned to look up at her. She did something she never did, blush, when he looked at her. Thankfully he mistook it for frostbitten cheeks.

"I was your Secret Santa." she declared, and his eyebrows rose a good two inches.

"Kinda extreme for Secret Santa, don'tcha think?" he joked, "I just bought that Jared kid bubblegum."

"Well, I thought you deserved more than gum." she said, "You just…seemed like you wanted this." He looked away, stroking the metallic handle of the Chair.

"I did." he whispered, "Thank you." Quinn's heart was being wrung dry by Artie's words, and she didn't want that happiness to be lost, so she swiftly hugged him. And then she kissed him. Kissed his cheek, really, but it showed her desire to deepen the kiss in another place. She didn't though; and neither did he. Instead, he used his blue-eyed gaze to stare at her hazel jewels.

"Merry Christmas, Quinn." he breathed.

"Merry Christmas, Artie."

And, someway, all the years of good things and wrongdoing, of loyalty and abandonment, became altogether alright. Quinn wouldn't have been surprised if the curve of a rainbow was over their heads right then.


End file.
